Breathing Is Boring
by elfmaiden4legs
Summary: Sherlock was strangled twice in the space of twenty-four hours during the case of the 'Blind Banker' - I never quite brought into the fact that he wouldn't suffer any complications as a result, but when the very worst happens in the middle of the night it falls to John to have to try and save his friend, and this time even he's not sure he can!
1. Chapter 1

**CHAPTER 1**

"John, are you alright?" A shivering Sarah asked as she ran forwards and bent down beside a bruised and bleeding Watson – gently examining the still weeping gash to the side of his head. Tears still glistened in her orb like eyes, drying where they splashed against her pale cheeks – she had clearly been traumatised by her ordeal, but somehow she still managed to maintain some small semblance of composure as she gently untied the bonds which were keeping John tightly strapped to his seat.

Her delicate fingers shook nervously, her breathing shallow, as the shock – both physical and mental – began to set in, and the realisation of what had just happened to them began to sink in. There was still a fire burning behind her blue eyes however, saying much about the young woman's strength, and Watson could clearly see in that moment that there was something different about her. She could stare death in the face, look into the eyes of those who had tried to kill her, and not let it break her.

She might have made a good army doctor, Watson thought.

Sherlock meanwhile still sat rasping, and coughing a hacking, unproductive cough in the corner – his hands reaching for his throat surreptitiously to claw at his neck beneath his scarf. John watched him as he rubbed at the evidentl raw flesh, although little could be seen in the dark light of the cavern.

"I'm fine." Watson gasped, grappling to catch his breath and gulping in air once she'd freed him of his bonds. "Take care of Sherlock."

Sarah's watery eyes were uncertain. She looked back at John – her face close to his – with nothing but concern for him upon her face. He reached out to touch her – his hand finding her cold, damp cheek and cupping it within his clammy palm – his thumb stroking a stray tear from her eye. She nestled her head into his gentle touch, and he nodded to her, his gaze unconsciously settling upon Sherlock in the corner.

Something with him didn't seem quite right John observed as he allowed himself a moment to compose himself and to take a few deep breaths. Sherlock was still coughing intermittently in the corner, swallowing hard at intervals, and sucking air in hungrily in greedy rasps. He had still made no effort to get up.

As Sarah approached him – still a little unsteady on her own feet – she bent down beside his hunched form and placed a reassuring hand upon his shoulder.

"Here, let me take a look." She offered tenderly, but John watched as Sherlock immediately flinched away from her gentle touch – an angry scowl upon his face.

"I'm fine." He croaked impatiently.

He was still massaging his neck – burrowing his fingers into the soft skin beneath with a pained grimace. He was evidently in some distress, but true to form Sherlock would not accept any offer of help. John hadn't noticed whether their attacker had had time to tighten the noose around his friend's throat, although the rigid and uncomfortable way that Sherlock was now holding himself certainly suggested so.

His complexion was pale – more pale than usual – and a fine veil of sweat glistened against the ghostly white of his damp forehead. John could see that Sarah evidently wasn't having much success in trying to coax Sherlock into letting her take a look at his injuries, but finally he managed to rally himself, rising unsteadily to his own feet, and slowly and stiffly made his way over to join her at his friend's side.

"Here, let me." He offered, bending down beside Sherlock – only to be met with the same angry glare.

"I've told you I'm fine John!" Sherlock scowled. "I just need a moment to catch my breath! God, why must you people always insist on crowding me! You can see I'm alright – all body parts are intact… my head isn't about to drop off."

He gasped, choking on his words, and John could tell that he was already struggling to maintain his façade – his walls were beginning to crumble, but he knew that he wouldn't trust Sarah. It may be that John could eventually coax him into speaking the truth, but not now, and not here.

His voice still sounded uncommonly forced and hoarse, and as he staggered drunkenly to his feet – both doctor's standing aside to give his uncoordinated body space to move – he stumbled and fell backwards against Sarah – momentarily too weak to stand. Fortunately the young woman saw his unsteady legs wobble and, pre-empting what was about to happen, she caught him before he hit the ground.

John was immediately back at his friend's side, gently teasing the scarf away from his throat – determined not to be swayed from seeing the damage beneath.

"I've told you John, I'm fine!" Sherlock snapped, batting away the doctor's searching and probing fingers, and wincing as they found a particularly painful patch of black and purple bruising. The doctor gently traced the angry red track marks of the makeshift noose with his fingers.

"No you're not Sherlock!" John exclaimed, prising the man's own hands away from the wound and guiding them back down to his side. He was rapidly beginning to lose patience, and the stress of the evening's events was making him short tempered. Contrary to Sherlock's frequently voiced opinion he didn't actually enjoy getting cross with him, especially when he could see that he wasn't well – but his friend wasn't exactly a model patient, and he didn't make John's job any easier.

The soft tissue damage was relatively extensive, and Sherlock's throat was raw and extremely tender. Alhough John couldn't see much he could tell that his friend's injuries were severe as he gently palpated the area.

"God Sherlock, this is bad!" John concluded, standing aside to allow Sarah to take a closer look. Sherlock glared at her as she again bent down beside him, but he did nothing to resist her probing hands.

"Come one John, it's not that bad." He scowled, flinching as Sarah's fingers found a particularly painful patch on his injured neck. "I've had worse." He grimaced.

"What? You mean this has happened before?" Watson asked.

Sherlock nodded. "Quite frequently actually. You'd probably be surprised." He remarked casually.

"Well, when was the last time something like this happened?" John demanded.

"Yesterday." Sherlock replied.

"Yesterday?" He exclaimed – incredulous – and then he remembered how when Sherlock had answered the door of Sue Lin's flat the day before his voice had been equally hoarse and gravelly. He'd been unusually quiet for the rest of the day, and when he had spoken his voice had been broken by a strange variation from high to low pitched tones – in hindsight a possible symptom of damaged vocal chords.

It was all beginning to make sense to him now. That the Black Lotus had been watching them seemed to go without saying – it would certainly explain why they had come to mistake John for Sherlock. Someone had beaten them to Sue Lin's apartment, and as Sherlock had entered through the open window upstairs they'd probably lay in wait and then attacked him.

"God Sherlock! Why didn't you tell me?" He demanded, leaping to his feet in exasperation as he rubbed at his tied eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose.

Sherlock shrugged. "It wasn't important." He coughed into the palm of his hand.

"Not important?" John exclaimed, incensed by his friend's alarming lack of concern for his own health – remaining as he did apparently oblivious to the potential implications of such an assault.

' _Did he not understand the seriousness of it all_?' John asked himself. ' _How close he'd come to losing his life_?' ' _Or did he simply just not care_?'

These were very dangerous people they'd been dealing with! They meant serious business, and here he was treating being strangled as though it was nothing more than a paper cut!

"Not important! Not important Sherlock? You could have died! Do you not realise how serious these injures are?" He asked him.

Sherlock just looked at him, and the sound of sirens wailing in the distance caused John to breathe a sigh of relief – Sherlock must have had the good sense to inform Lestrade of where he was going before he arrived.

He hoped that Lestrade had also had the good sense to call an ambulance – there was now a glassy, blank glaze to his friend's eyes.

"Sherlock, are you alright?" John frowned.

Sherlock still seemed to be having some difficulty talking, but he nodded to John that he was.

"Right then," John nodded, "that'll be Lestrade! With any luck he'll have thought to call an ambulance…"

"I'm not going to hospital!" Sherlock shook his head.

"Sherlock!" Watson growled – his patience now seriously beginning to wane as the deep gash in his forehead started to throb. "You were strangled… twice!"

"I know, but I'm still not going to hospital!"

Watson wished that he could get his friend to understand the seriousness of the situation – to put aside all of his preconceived and quite erroneous nonsense about hospitals and see sense. Despite what he might have thought of himself he was still only human after all, made of flesh and bones, and with blood running through his veins. He was just as breakable as he or Sarah, and at the moment he seemed the more seriously injured out of the three of them.

"Perhaps…" Sarah – who'd managed to get a good look at Sherlock's injuries – faltered quietly. She looked from John to Sherlock and back again as she got unsteadily to her feet and helped Sherlock to do the same. "Well, I agree with you John, he really ought to see a doctor." She explained. "And probably not one currently suffering from a probable concussion himself."

She turned to Sherlock as he opened his mouth to say something and held up a hand to stifle his words – shaking her head. He immediately closed it again.

"I've managed to take a look at his injuries though." She explained. "And they look painful but not currently life threatening. He's been very lucky. He'll have a sore throat for the next few days, and you'll need to keep an eye on him for swelling, or any changes to his breathing… but of course you know that already. He's certainly not out of the woods, but I don't think we can force him to see a medic if he really doesn't want to John."

John realised of course that she was right.

Watson was silent – his expression blank and unreadable, but intentionally so. Sarah was always such a voice of reason – the little voice in the back of his mind which had so far kept him calm in the deep ocean of complexity which was his life with Sherlock Holmes – but still he didn't want Sherlock to see that he was wavering.

He finally he nodded however – despite his reservations. Sherlock smiled – a little too self-satisfied for John's liking. This was a matter of his health and wellbeing – it should not have been twisted into a battle of wills between doctor and patient. Whatever Sherlock might have thought now John wasn't going to let him off that lightly – he was still concerned.

"Very well." He agreed, with a reluctant nod. "But when we get home I'm giving you a thorough examination! No compromise!" He told him.

"They're getting closer." Sarah sighed quietly, her relief evident as she referred to the sound of sirens.

He didn't say anything, but Sherlock's face fell.


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2**

John asked Lestrade to drop Sarah off on their way home. Sherlock didn't say much throughout the short trip but Watson managed to reassure the Detective Inspector's concerns by explaining that he was thinking, and Lestrade understood all too well that he very rarely entered into what he saw as mundane conversation when he was engaged in deep thought and so dropped the subject. Both John and Sarah had allowed themselves to be treated at the crime scene. Although Sarah had sustained no major physical injuries she'd been treated for the initial shock – and the deep laceration to John's head had been cleaned and mended using butterfly stitches. Sherlock had simply sat in the far corner of the ambulance, a sulky expression upon his face, turning down all offers of assistance, and thwarting any attempts to try and examine him. Finally the paramedics had lost patience with him and John had offered to take him home.

Back at the flat John hadn't forgotten about his word to see to Sherlock's injuries himself – no matter how much the Private Detective hoped that he might have done – and as Sherlock immediately made a bee-line for the kitchen, pottering around sulkily and putting the kettle on in a desperate attempt to stall for more time, Watson dashed upstairs to get his things.

Medical bag in hand and stethoscope thrown around his neck the doctor stood quietly outside the kitchen door when he descended the stairs a few minutes later – watching his friend from a distance. He observed his movements for any sign of distress – still stiff and slow, just as they had been back at the cove – and he noticed as he rubbed at the back of his neck awkwardly and closed his eyes with a grimace. Sherlock breathed in deep – working through the pain.

He placed a teabag into each of the two teacups, going through the motions of waiting for the water to boil, adding two sugars to one and just milk to the other, before the discomfort of his injuries appeared to become too much for him and he abandoned the tea in favour of his favourite chair – opposite the television in the sitting room. John watched as he kicked off his shoes, unbuttoned his coat, and finally unwrapped his scarf from around his neck, before slowly sinking into the seat and closing his eyes. From this fresh angle and in this new light he could now get a much better view of his friend's injured neck, and he grimaced at the sight of the painful rub marks. There was some significant superficial damage where the makeshift noose had obviously taken off several layers of skin, which was now broken and slightly bloodied. The area had also started to bruise.

"How're you feeling?" John asked.

Sherlock looked back at him with a petulant glare.

"Fine." He croaked, but Watson wasn't in the mood for anything other than the truth. He was in pain and utterly exhausted himself – his own head throbbed where he'd bumped it when he'd fell, and all he wanted was to crawl into a nice warm bed, close his eyes, and go to sleep. Sherlock's injuries were serious though and needed to be properly assessed by a professional eye.

"You seem to have taken a couple of layers of skin off our neck here." He remarked with a frown. "And the extent of the bruising is only just beginning to show." He gently palpated the area. "The full scale of any soft tissue damage should become apparent over the next couple of days."

Sherlock grimaced.

"Sore throat?" John asked him, and he nodded awkwardly.

"Will you let me take a proper look at you?" The doctor implored him as he took in the full extent of the damage to Sherlock's neck. He failed to suppress his concerns that he may have sustained more serious injuries which were not visually apparent. Broken bones, or cracked cartledge were certainly not beyond the realms of possibility, and internal swelling which might later restrict his breathing was likely.

He was expecting to meet with some degree of resistance to his plee, but to his relief Sherlock gave him one final petulant look and then with a stiff and calculated nod of his head relented.

"If it will make you stop with your mother hen routine." He rasped, although he went back to glowering at John from underneath his mop of messy black curls.

Sherlock flinched as the doctor started his examination by gently palpating the soft tissue around the area of bruising, methodically checking for any broken bones, or damage to any vital structures in his neck. It occurred to him that Sherlock was probably in a lot more pain than he was letting on, and so he went about this as gently as possible – relieved when he found no evidence of this. He then carefully began to unbutton Sherlock's shirt, and remove his coat, checking the rigidity of his ribs for any cracks or breaks and then placing the stethoscope to Sherlock's chest. He listened carefully to the rhythm of his friend's heart and the sound of his lungs, instructing him to take deep breaths at intervals and listening for any change in his breathing, but he heard no sign of tachycardia or anything which might indicate some of the more serious internal damage he'd been worried about.

"It seems you've been very lucky this time." He explained, as he looked gravely down at his friend. "You're likely to be very sore for the next few days, but apart from that the damage doesn't seem permanent and there's no sign of injury to any of your vital structures so you're not in any immediate danger."

He gently put two fingers to one thin and pale wrist as he spoke to take his pulse.

When he'd finished he sighed.

"Let me just take your blood pressure." He said, as, upon being released from John's grasp Sherlock's arm dropped limply back to his side.

Sherlock watched, with concerning disinterest, as Watson proceeded to roll up his shirt sleeve and slide the cuff of the blood pressure monitor up his slender arm. John adjusted the Velcro strip until it hugged his friend's arm securely, and began to inflate the machine – waiting a few moments for the reading to take. There was a moments silence between the two men as Watson deliberately averted Sherlock's gaze but when their eyes finally did meet again he did his best to force a small smile.

"It's slightly on the high side." He was finally able to confirm as he removed the cuff and Sherlock rolled his own sleeve down, fastening it at the wrist. "But not too high, considering what you've been through tonight." John took another look at the angry red and purple welting upon his friend's injured neck and winced. "Sarah was right though, you're not out of the woods yet. Swelling is still likely to occur – it's the amount which will determine the extent of any complications you may experience. Any increase in your amount of pain, any new pain anywhere, or any difficulty in breathing and you must let me know straight away Sherlock, do you understand?"

Sherlock sighed – but nodded.

"You look tired." John observed, his tone softening now that he'd established for himself that his friend wasn't in any immediate danger. He felt his first pang of sympathy as he took in his friend's sunken eyes, the dark circular patches beneath them, and watched as as he fought to stay awake – his body was clearly exhausted and yet still Sherlock wouldn't allow himself to fall asleep.

"I'm fine." He groaned groggily.

John simply nodded – the adrenaline was beginning to wear off for both of them now and the pain from the injuries they had both sustained was getting incrementally worse. It was already beginning to make Sherlock irritable.

"I'm going to give you a painkiller and an anti-inflamortary." John told him, and removed two small vials of medication and a hypodermic syringe from his bag. "You're likely to find swallowing a little difficult for the next forty-eight hours at least." He told him. "So lay off the oral medication, just to give your throat a rest. The anti-inflamoratary should help with any swelling and also relieve some of the pain. The painkiller I'm going to give you is a strong one so you're likely to feel drowsy, and you may experience some dizziness" He explained.

Sherlock watched him fill the syringe with the contents of one vial of medication and then the other, before flicking it carefully to rid the liquid contents of any air bubbles. He then gently rolled up his sleeve, and flicked at the fleshiest part of his arm as he tried to locate a vein.

"If you're still in pain in the next couple of hours let me know and I can sedate you." He said, and Sherlock flinched slightly as, after cleaning a small area of skin with an antiseptic wipe, he felt the sharp point of the hollow needle pierce his flesh and John emptied the contents of the syringe into his bloodstream.

"Thank you." Sherlock croaked as John began to clear away the used packets and implements. Talking was more difficult than it had been now, but not impossible, and John stopped what he was doing momentarily to smile down at him.

"I'll get an icepack for your neck." He sighed. "And next time someone nearly strangles you twice in the course of two days Sherlock, make sure you've told me about the first time!" He implored, before heading downstairs to dispose of the waste in the bin outside.


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter 3**

"John…" A choking voice sounded beside the young doctor in the early hours of the morning as Watson became vaguely aware of the fact that he was being shaken awake. His head still throbbed from the blow he'd taken the evening before, and his vision continued to blur in and out of focus for a good few seconds until he finally managed to make out the figure of his friend standing over him. He couldn't make out the face of the alarm clock on his bedside table, but could tell by the dark of the room that it was probably still the very early hours of the morning.

"John…" Sherlock tried to rouse his friend again, and John immediately covered his head with a pillow, trying to drown out the Detective's demands for his attention. "John… for God's sake, wake up…"

"For God's sake Sherlock?" Watson's patience waned, and he snapped. "It's the early hours of the morning, I have to get up for work in just a few more hours, and my head is killing me. Surely you with all your powers of deduction can see that even if you don't need sleep around 99% of the general population still do. Whatever it is can wait till morning!"

"But John…" Sherlock tried again, choking out the words in between strangled gulps of air. "This can't wait… I… John…"

It was only now that sleep had eluded him, and his brain had started to adjust to the darkness which deprived his senses that he was able to make more sense of his surrounding, and detect the note of genuine distress in the other man's weak tone – no longer demanding of his undivided attention as it so usually was, but even maybe slightly fearful and there was a faint undertone of desperation. His voice sunk to an inaudible whisper before he appeared to give up on speech completely.

"Sherlock?" John frowned in the darkness.

But Sherlock had gone quiet – he could still hear the sound of the other man's breathing – fast and slightly laboured, more laboured than he would have ideally liked to hear now that he came to think about it in fact.

"Sherlock?" He asked again – more concerned now as his façade of anger and frustration began to crack. "Sherlock, are you alright?"

He fumbled with the switch to the lamp on his bedside table, squinting slightly as he found it and it took his eyes a moment to adjust as the room was immediately flooded with a blinding blanket of light.

Sherlock was standing in the open doorway to his bedroom, the perspiration glistening against his pale forehead and trickling down the back of his neck and brow – and there was an alarmingly blue, cyanotic pigment to his complexion, as he took short, shallow gulps of breath.

"John… I… I can't breathe." He gasped – lips slightly grey as he clutched and clawed reactively at his chest as though to do so might somehow help him to draw breath easier. The injury to his neck was more apparent now, and even more blue and purple bruises appeared to have formed in the last few hours since John had last tended to the wound.

"Bloody shit Sherlock!" He cursed as he leapt from the bed, rubbing the sleep from his eyes as he made his way over to his friend's side – urgently palpating the pink and angry welt of the ligature mark around his neck, and as he did so the cause of Sherlock's current difficulty became immediately apparent.

The flesh beneath his fingertips was hard and ballberous where the blood had begun to pool at the sight of the bruising. Watson had been worried that this might happen – it was the reason he'd wanted Sherlock to get himself checked over at the scene. The soft tissue had now started to swell at the point of injury, narrowing his airway and consequently making it difficult for Sherlock to breathe. John's heart skipped a beat as he immediately realised that they were now facing a potentially life threatening situation, and that if he didn't work fast to minimalize the continued swelling and get his friend's condition stabalised soon then Sherlock could very easily die from his injuries.

He took a deep breath, allowing his army training to take over and swallowing his own fear as he guided Sherlock over to the bed and sat him down on the mattress with his back propped up against the headboard. He was still in the same clothes he'd been wearing the day before, and as he helped him off with his jacket he realised that Sherlock would probably have been finding it increasingly difficult to breathe for a fair few hours before he'd thought to wake him. John began to wish that he hadn't left him alone to go to bed – he should have known that Sherlock wouldn't have listened to what he'd said about waking him to let him know if his symptoms started to worsen.

He sighed as he got to his feet and reached for his medical bag on his dressing table. As he did so he pulled his phone from his dressing gown pocket and dialled 999 for an ambulance. How long had the world's only Consulting Detective been suffering in silence? He wondered.

John sat on the edge of the bed, one hand placed reassuringly upon Sherlock's shoulder as he calmly explained the situation to the young woman on the other end of the line, keeping a close eye on Sherlock the whole time. He wouldn't take his eyes away from his pale and sweaty face, or his palm away from his cold and slightly trembling shoulder. Sherlock's breathing was becoming increasingly more laboured with each passing minute, as he started choking and gasping for air the accelerated rise and fall of his chest became even more rapid as panic only added to his respiratory distress, and John found himself becoming increasingly frustrated with the voice on the other end of the receiver. He appreciated that the young woman had a job to do, but he was a doctor, and he couldn't help but feel that they were both wasting valuable time whilst he was forced to answer a stream of what were standard, but under the circumstances quite unnecessary and irreverent, questions.

Sherlock opened his mouth as if to say something, but as nothing more than a strangled moan escaped him John put out a steady hand to firmly silence the Detective, willing him to concentrate all of his efforts into breathing. Finally however Watson was informed that she'd dispatched an ambulance to their address and he was finally able to hang up the phone and focus on tending to his friend.

"Don't try and talk." He said, recognising the terror in Sherlock's eyes as he fought for breath. "I know it's difficult but just try and relax whilst I take a look at you."

He then proceeded to palpate the swollen fleshy area of Sherlock's throat and neck one last time, and check to see if his glands were swollen to ensure that the man's current distress was not caused by some underlying infection and _was_ a result of the trauma he'd sustained to his neck the evening before. He placed his stethoscope to Sherlock's laboured chest and listened to his heart and lungs.

As expected he sounded wheezy as the swelling restricted the air flow through his lungs, and, unlike when he'd last listened, he was now distinctly tachycardic.

With his preliminary examination completed John could feel the anger rising in the pit of his stomach – this was the very reason why he'd wanted Sherlock to get himself checked over by the paramedics at the scene. If he had of done so they could have picked up on the soft tissue damage before they reached a crisis.

As things were there would be little he could do if Sherlock's throat swelled completely shut – he could always perform a particularly risky tracheotomy which would if the worst came to the worst certainly be his only hope of saving his friend's life, but Watson wanted to try and avoid this at all costs. It was risky, and complicated, but if the need arose it was preferable to being forced to sit back and watch him die.

"Sherlock," He explained to his friend softly, and as calmly as he could muster under the circumstances as he reached for his bag again, "you're going to have to listen to me very carefully and do everything I say, alright? I'm going to give you a couple of injections. The injuries you've sustained to your neck have caused your throat to swell, that's what's causing your current difficulty breathing."

For the first time since John had known him he recognised genuine terror in Sherlock's eyes, and that unnerved him. It turned everything he thought he'd ever known about the detective upside down – Sherlock Holmes simply didn't feel fear, he was immune to it.

Sherlock simply nodded, and, allowing himself to be advised and guided by John – putting his trust in his very capable hands - he watched his friend break open and then fill a syringe with two rounds of medicine identical to the ones he'd administered to him only a few hours before.

"I'm going to give you another anti-inflamoratory to try and reduce the swelling, and a painkiller to help with your pain." John explained. "And I'm sorry, this might sting a little, but only for a moment."

Sherlock gave a small gesture with his eyes to indicate that he understood. Watson then gently rolled up his shirt sleeve.

Sherlock flinched visibly as the needle penetrated his pale flesh and its contents were emptied into the muscle. As he withdrew the hypodermic and applied a small amount of pressure to Sherlock's arm to stem a tiny trickle of blood John frowned as he observed the angry red welt already beginning to form around the needle's point of entry – taking note that Sherlock obviously bruised easily.

He then temporarily disposed of the needle into his bag, and tossed the small piece of gauze he'd used to sterilize the skin around the sign of the puncture into the nearby bin.

"Are you still having difficulty breathing?" He asked of his friend, who slowly turned his pale and perspiring face towards him, and made a small gesture to indicate that he was.

John sighed. He certainly didn't need a stethoscope to pick up on Sherlock's laboured breathing, nor how his breath came in short and wheezy rasps – which whistled shrilly throughout his respiratory passages. Just how much of his current difficulty was due to his anxiety, as opposed to being caused by the swelling in his throat was almost impossible to tell – but John could see that his condition was a serious one, and he obviously wasn't coping well.

He sat observing his friend for a further moment, putting two gentle fingers to the side of his neck to monitor his racing pulse. The anti-inflamoratory would work eventually, but it needed time in order to take effect – time which Watson wasn't sure they really had. Fortunately the pain-killers was much faster acting, and after only a short period of time Sherlock began to relax slightly as they began to take the edge off his pain.

"Now Sherlock, listen to me." Watson coaxed him gently. "You need to remain calm. I'm going to have to go downstairs and wake Mrs Hudson, I need someone outside to wait for the ambulance for me, and then I'm going to get some frozen peas to ice down your neck."

But Sherlock, to John's surprise, shook his head. "No... you can't." He wheezed, grimacing again as the motion appeared to cause him more pain. "We... don't... have any."

"Don't do that!" Watson implored him to remain as still as possible. "And what do you mean we don't have any? I brought some the other day."

"I... threw them away." Sherlock explained slowly, nursing his injured throat as he spoke. "I... needed the freezer space... for an... experiment. Frozen fingers..." He forced the words through tightly clenched teeth as his breath came in ragged waves.

"For God's sake Sherlock!" Watson exclaimed in his exasperation, feeling slightly panicked. "I can't ice your neck down with frozen fingers!"

"There's ice... in the... freezer..." Sherlock reminded him breathlessly – of course, Sherlock always kept ice to hand in case he ever needed it for one of his many experiments. John still couldn't escape his feelings of frustration with his friend, but at least that was better than nothing at all.

"That will have to do." He sighed, as he got stiffly to his feet. John didn't want to leave his friend for a moment, but he couldn't afford to delay matters any longer – he needed to alert Mrs Hudson to the situation, and someone had to be on hand to await the ambulance and show the paramedics up to John's bedroom when they arrived – they had very little time to lose.

With this in mind Watson therefore made sure that Sherlock was comfortable – or as comfortable as was possible under the circumstances. He fluffed the pillows, and guided him gently back towards the headrest, where he sat – his complexion still blue – watching as his friend make a bee-line for the door with the sad eyes of a lost and terrified child.

"Don't..." He started, in a voice so weak and afraid as he implored John not to leave him alone, but John raised a firm hand to silence him.

"Don't move." He ordered him to remain still. "Just concentrate on your breathing. I'll be back in a minute.

I know you're scared, but you've just got to trust me. I promise you, I'm not going to let anything happen to you."

With that he hurried from the room – it taking every ounce of his strength and will to drag himself away from Sherlock's side. Despite his promise to not allow anything to happen to his friend, in his absence he couldn't be entirely sure of what he might find upon his return.

John raced from the bedroom, and down the small flight of stairs, taking them two at a time. He could still hear Sherlock's laboured breathing as he descended the small staircase towards the lower level. He quickened his pace, jumping the final couple of steps as he leapt to the narrow hallway below.

He hammered on Mrs Hudson's apartment door, until she answered, bleary eyed and clothed in her dressing gown and slippers, and explained to her as calmly as he could what had happened. His body warm and perspiring slightly with the exertion, he only realised much later that he must have appeared quite an alarming sight to their long suffering landlady, whom he'd obviously roused from her bed.

After explaining the situation to her it then took him a further couple of minutes to calm her sufficiently in order to instruct her on what he needed her to do. On paper she may have only been the two men's landlady – no relation to either of them – but in reality she was actually so much more. She was kind and gentle in temperament, softly spoken, and had a heart of gold.

Despite her frequent protests of "not your housekeeper" she cared deeply about them both, and in truth didn't really mind cooking for, cleaning up after, and making the occasional cup of tea for the two of them. She couldn't have loved either of them more if they'd been her own flesh and blood.

That done John finally hurried to get the bag of ice from the freezer, and made his way back upstairs to his friend – by which time he'd been away from Sherlock's side for almost ten minutes, and upon his return he found him in a state of some considerable distress.

"John..." Sherlock croaked, with evident relief to have his friend back by his side. His breathing was now even more laboured, and seemed even more of an effort than before.

John was scared.

He checked Sherlock's pulse again – finding it to be weak and thread – and it was obvious that he wasn't going to be able to hold onto consciousness for much longer. His body was by now slowly being starved of the vital oxygen which was essential to its functioning, and without it it wouldn't take long before his organs started shutting down. John couldn't allow him to lose consciousness – if he did he might never wake up.

Sherlock now seemed to have given up all hope of forcing any further words from between his blue lips – the effort of doing so appeared to be too much for his weak body to manage – and his last attempt had apparently drained him. As John iced down his neck he looked closer at his injuries, and again observed the full extent of the bruising – which was a repulsive multi-coloured mess, consisting it seemed of every shade of blue, black and purple imaginable.

Sherlock winced and occasionally recoiled from the bag of ice in John's hand, but after a while the freezing water appeared to sooth his wounds and he relaxed a little. John then re-checked his pulse, before deciding that he ought to take his friend's blood-pressure again.

Reaching for the blood pressure monitor he heard the sound of sirens outside and breathed a sigh of relief as he also heard the sound of muffled voices. These were followed by the thumping of footsteps on the stairs. He wrapped the cuff around Sherlock's arm for the second time that evening and began to inflate it. He waited a few moments, and then took note of the flashing number on the small digital screen, 90/60.

"It's low." He concluded with some anxiety, when only a few hours ago it had been slightly too high. He looked at Sherlock as he removed the cuff from his arm – struggling by now to conceal his mounting concern. At that moment Mrs Hudson came bustling into the room, quietly ushering the paramedics in behind her.

She appeared slightly alarmed as she took in the sight of Sherlock sitting upon the bed before her, but Watson did his best to try to calm her reassure her that everything was going to be alright. He advised her to return to her bed, although he doubted that she would get any further sleep on this night.

Despite his attempts to assure her that everything was under control she refused to leave – and there was very little even Watson could do to force the landlady from the rooms of her own premises, and so eventually he relented.

He turned to address the paramedics, who had set to work on their patient immediately – struggling to stabilise him enough for transfer. John did his best to reassure Sherlock as drips were set up and oxygen administered to him, whilst supervising proceedings, and they prepared to lift Sherlock onto a stretcher.

"Who... needs... to... breathe... anyway...?" Sherlock asked weakly as he was lifted onto the bed, and assisted down the stairs and into the awaiting ambulance – John following close behind. "Breathing... is... boring..."


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter 4**

As the sun came up on London a few days later, casting the already bustling capital city in a shadow of dark blue, Watson looked across at his friend lying in the bed opposite him. Sherlock's eyes were closed, and there was now a look of peace upon the young man's pale face to replace the look of alarm from a few days before. There was a drip feeding saline and a cocktail of medication into the back of his right hand, and he was breathing much easier now with the aid of an oxygen mask.

Sherlock had spent the past few days sedated and intubated in order to give his injured throat time to heal, and throughout this time John had been almost permanently glued to his side. He'd sat in the chair next to his friend's bed, eyes unmoving from his catatonic form as he'd watched the gentle rise and fall of Sherlock's chest, until his back had moulded itself to the shape of the seat which he'd occupied, and his wounded leg – which hadn't plagued him for such a long time now – began to ache. Periodically he would rise gingerly from his position in order to stretch, before checking Sherlock's vital signs, adjust his drip, check his chart, and return to his seat, where he would resume his tireless vidual.

Mrs Hudson, Mycroft and even Lestrade had been regular visits to the hospital throughout this time, although only Mrs Hudson and Lestrade had stayed for any length of time – Mycroft simply popping in between professional engagements in order to check on his brother's progress before popping out again with a somewhat mysterious and superior air. John didn't mind this so much, the few hours Mycroft had spent at his brother's bedside on the evening of his admission had been passed in uncomfortable silence, with the elder of the two Holmes brothers busy making arrangements and instructing Sherlock's numerous doctors and nurses on his younger brother's care. It had come as something of a relief to John when Mycroft had finally left early the following morning.

Mrs Hudson had spent numerous afternoons plying John with hot, sweet teas and coffees from the hospital vending machine, and fussing over Sherlock's unconscious form, whilst Lestrade had brought along a selection of case notes from Scotland Yard for Sherlock to leaf through, in order to keep him occupied once he regained consciousness.

In addition to keeping her two tenants's flat maintained in their absence John was also grateful to their kindly landlady for the long hours she too had spent keeping watch over the detective's bedside – fluffing his pillows and gently ruffling his hair as she gently stroked the stray locks of his messy black mop away from his clammy forehead – enabling John to get some much needed sleep, and to grab the occasional breath of fresh air.

As the days went on she had stayed for longer, spending whole days busying herself around Sherlock's hospital room and only returning to 221B late each evening in order to get some sleep herself. Lestrade visited twice a day, once before work, and again on his way home. John on the other hand never left his friend's bedside – the nurses had provided him with blankets and pillows, and one in particular who had seemed to take quite a shining to the two men had even slipped him meals when she could.

It had been a tense few days for all involved, but finally, almost a week later Sherlock's throat had finally recovered enough to enable him to be taken off the ventilator, and after a few hours he's eyes had opened for the first time since his admission to the hospital – to everyone's great relief.

He'd uttered just one word before his eyes had fluttered closed again as a more natural sleep had taken him.

"John..."

That had been late during the previous evening, and as John now stood at the bedroom window and looked down at the hospital car park below, and the view of the city on the horizon, he turned back to his friend and smiled.

It was going to be at least another week before Sherlock would be well enough to leave the hospital; his body had taken quite an unprecedented beating and was going to need time to fully recover. Despite the fact that the majority of the swelling had now gone down the detective's throat was still very bruised, and his neck was going to be remain painful for a few days to come.

He was also both physically and emotionally exhausted – and he wasn't the only one Watson thought silently to himself, as he cast his mind back over the past few days.

Sherlock Holmes stirred in his sleep, grimacing as a pained moan escaped him, and John sighed – abandoning his own moment of quiet contemplation he stepped over to his friend's side, adjusting his pillows and pulling the blankets further up towards his friend's chest in order to try and make him a little more comfortable. He then gently placed both of Sherlock's hands beneath the sheets, noticing that his fingers were pale and cold – being careful not to dislodge the drip in the process – and readjusted his oxygen mask.

Yes, it had been a tough week for all involved, but given time he now felt significantly assured that Sherlock was going to be just fine - he'd be back to his old self in no time.


End file.
